


Best Assignment Ever

by wendymarlowe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BDSM, Bondage, D/s, DarkFuckPrince!John, M/M, MI6!John, Rope Bondage, Spanking, actual negotiation and consent, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3357062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/pseuds/wendymarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is MI6.  His assignment is to seduce a tall, posh git named Sherlock.  Luckily, this happens to correspond well to John's non-assassination-based skills.  (Really just an excuse for kinky porn.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone in the comments section of "The Apology" made up the tag "DarkFuckPrince!John." It made me want to write porn. So I did.

_Seduce target._

John looked back and forth between the text message and the tall, dark-haired man leaning against the bar, then laughed aloud. Three bloody days of tailing the posh git, mapping out his every move and learning his routine, and it turned out not to be an assassination mission after all.

Which John was just as happy about, to be honest - apart from everything else, in those three days the man had spent an awful lot of time in the presence of police officers. John didn’t fancy having to cover up a hit _that_ thoroughly. He wasn’t entirely used to London yet, after all his time away - Her Majesty’s Service had seemed perfectly happy to avail itself of his skills in other, warmer parts of the globe. And yet. One shot, one bloody lucky shot from some twelve-year-old Afghan with a gun, and now here he was.

Tall Posh Git was barely touching his drink. John’s initial brief had said _private detective,_ although at the time he’d assumed that was a cover. From the way the man was surveying the wedding reception, though, there may have been some truth to it. His gaze flitted around the room like someone used to actually observing his surroundings rather than someone there to merely celebrate.

“Enjoying yourself yet?” Mike Stamford, slightly the worse for the champagne, threw an arm around John’s shoulders and squeezed him in a lopsided hug. “Thanks for being here, you know. Didn’t expect you to show up out of the blue in London like that!”

“Thanks for the last-minute invitation,” John answered. “It was great to reconnect with you, obviously, and the lovely Sarah is clearly worth celebrating.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Mike grinned across the dance floor at his new wife. “Never have figured out what she saw in me, but she said yes and that’s all that counts!” He clapped John on the shoulder - missing John’s scar by less than an inch, although John didn’t let the sudden jolt of pain show on his face. “You, on the other hand. We’ve got to find you someone. I want to dance at your wedding too.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I’m dancing tonight,” John said quickly. “The leg, you know. Figured I’d prop up the wall - or the bar, as the case may be - and just take it all in.”

Mike nodded, undaunted, and swung around to look over at the bar. And smirked. “Noticed him, did you?”

John tried to look embarrassed at being caught out. “I - um.”

“Yeah, I know you’re bi. After you and Bill had your thing back in med school, _everyone_ knew. Man didn’t exactly keep his mouth shut.”

 _“Bloody hell.”_ The embarrassment wasn’t faked now. “I didn’t realize he was kissing and telling - he had issues with the whole men thing. Still does, for all I know.”

Mike shrugged, obviously not bothered. “Haven’t seen him in years. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sulking over there just so happens to be single and gay too, though, so I’d be happy to introduce you if you want. Not that most people can stand being around him for more than five minutes at a time, mind you, but you’re welcome to have a run at him if you like.”

 _Perfect._ John forced a bit of a smile to his face. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble . . .”

“Not at all! Come on.” Mike grabbed John’s arm and not-entirely-steadily led him to where Tall Posh Git was leaning against the bar. “John, I want you to meet Sherlock. Sherlock, this is John.”

The target - Sherlock - set his drink down and fixed Mike with a puzzled frown. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want him to meet me?”

Mike glanced at John with a mischievous grin, then clapped him on the back again (John was ready for it this time). “Because he’s dying to get a leg over and he thinks you’re bloody hot, you idiot. It’s what people do at weddings. Sarah’s calling me - you be on your best behavior, Sherlock, and you may just get the best shag of your life. G’luck!” And he tacked off through the milling crowd.

 _Well._ John caught his lip in his teeth and looked up at Sherlock awkwardly. _Christ, that man is tall._ “Um. Not really the type of introduction I was expecting.”

Sherlock studied him silently for several seconds, then tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Pardon?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq? Or - oh, I see. It’s both.”

“How did you-”

“It’s obvious, really,” Sherlock said. “Your haircut is military, your limp and the way you jumped when Mike smacked your shoulder say wounded in action. Tan says Afghanistan or Iraq. And your response to my question indicates you had to think about it, which means you spent long enough in the service you had to actually pinpoint where you’d been. Thus both.”

John blinked. “That was incredible.”

And then it was Sherlock’s turn to look surprised. “Really?”

“Unexpected and brilliant - yeah, it was.” John leaned up against the bar, shooting Sherlock a slantwise glance through his lashes. “Mike already let the cat out of the bag, I know, but that means I can tell you straight up that I find both of those things to be as sexy as fuck. Tall and thin is kind of my type, too. He knows me better than I expected.”

Sherlock took a long time to reply - long enough John was second-guessing his approach. “I should say I don’t usually do this,” he said eventually. “This isn’t - it’s not really my area.”

“What - being picked up at weddings? Or just by blokes?”

“Being picked up by . . . someone normal.”

“Want me to bugger off?” _Please say no._ “I’d be disappointed, but I wouldn’t be offended or anything. It’s the downside to being both gay and a bit forward - you’re bound to misjudge sooner or later.”

Sherlock frowned. “But you’re not gay - you’re clearly bisexual. I’ve been watching you flirt with women, too.”

“Aha - you just admitted you’ve been watching me!” John’s grin was genuine - hitting on Tall Posh Git (as he’d started calling him in his head, since the brief neglected to mention his real name) was a lot more fun than he’d expected. “This isn’t entirely one-sided, then. And yeah, you’re right, but ‘gay’ is easier to explain than ‘Kinsey four pansexual panromantic’ to people who don’t really get it. The difference is irrelevant, in this case.”

Sherlock studied him again, even longer this time. John got the strange idea that the man was trying to analyze his body language, trying to read something . . . luckily John had enough undercover experience to not get flustered, but it still wasn’t fun. He sipped his all-but-forgotten drink and waited patiently under the scrutiny.

“You’re a military man,” Sherlock finally announced. “Good at giving orders, I should imagine.”

 _Oh god, is he saying what I think he’s saying?_ John drew himself up to his full height. “Very good,” he acknowledged gravely.

Something complicated passed over Sherlock’s face. Whatever the combination of thoughts, it settled into something very like anticipation. “Seen a lot of action, then?” he murmured.

“Enough for a lifetime.” John let himself imagine this tall, composed man coming apart beneath him, his rigid self-control stripped away a bit at a time-

Sherlock paused, taken aback by the intensity of whatever he saw in John’s eyes, but then he nodded and leaned forward so his lips were nearly brushing John’s ear. “Want to see some more?”

John couldn’t resist returning the favor. “God, yes,” he breathed against Sherlock’s neck. The flick of his tongue against Sherlock’s carotid sent a shiver up the taller man’s entire frame.

John was jubilant as they slipped away together through a side entrance. _THIS is why I was assigned to the job,_ a voice in the back of his head crowed. _Plays to my_ other _skillset. Best fucking assignment ever._


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock barely spoke in the taxi, other than a single barked command to the driver ( _“Two two one Baker street, I prefer my own flat, John, I hope you understand,”_ ) but the smoldering looks he kept directing across the confines of the back seat were nothing short of incendiary. John practically threw a handful of cash at the cabbie before sprinting after Sherlock, who merely let himself into the unassuming flat next to a small restaurant and left the door open behind him. The ground floor flat was clearly let (owned?) by an older woman, judging from the decor, but the stairs in the hallway led to a flat on the first floor which also had the door wide open. John took a brief glance around, more out of habit than anything else, then followed at a more sedate pace up the stairs.

The room at the top stopped him in his tracks. It looked a bit like a mad scientist with a Victorian fetish had started to decorate, but had gotten bored and wandered off - every imaginable surface was covered with _something,_ some of it identifiable but much of it not. John counted two skulls (one human, one bovine), some antique titration equipment on the table in the kitchen, what looked like an honest-to-goodness _harpoon_ in the corner, and everywhere books, books, books. He recognized a few from his medical training days; others looked to be ancient to the point of falling apart. The floor was (mostly) clear, leaving a safe path to the only other open door in the flat. John closed and locked the main door behind him, then gingerly made his way through the mess to what he assumed was Sherlock’s bedroom. The flat was silent, which set his senses on high alert, but surely Sherlock was still there -

“John.” Sherlock - who was totally nude already, and how had he managed _that_ so quickly? - turned and indicated a chest at the foot of the bed. The lid was open, displaying a stunning variety of restraints, gags, and other toys. “I assume you’ll want to shut me up as quickly as possible, so please feel free to use anything you see here. Would you prefer me on the bed or the floor? I find that most of my partners rate my fellatio technique as well above-average, although if that’s not your preference you are certainly welcome to put me in one of the masks or the ball gag. I don’t usually find ‘safe words’ to be practical, as I already consent to anything, but if you require one my usual choice is ‘Vatican cameos.’ Not a term I’ve ever had come up in the course of interactions otherwise, although I suppose if you’re into role play there could be a possibility-”

“Sherlock, stop.” John couldn’t even think as fast as Tall Posh Git was talking, but he heard enough to realize this would perhaps require going a bit slower than he’d expected. He took in Sherlock’s look of surprise for a long moment, then nodded. “Right, so you _can_ take direction. That’s the first step.”

Tall Posh Git scrunched up his face into an expression of annoyance. “I’d hardly have a trunk full of bondage gear if I couldn’t,” he said. “This is what you followed me home for, isn’t it? For deviant sex?”

“You think of yourself as a deviant?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Slightly over half of adults in Britain have an interest in sexual behaviors which could be termed a ‘kink,’ depending on how you define it, but that vague majority is only acquired through grouping several dissimilar ‘kinks’ together. An extreme interest in sadomasochism, submission, and bondage is generally perceived as ‘deviant’ no matter what scale it’s measured in. Why, don’t you?”

“I try to just think of myself as good in bed, most of the time,” John answered honestly. “That takes a lot of forms depending on who I’m with. BDSM is certainly one of them, but it’s not the only one. It takes a bit of negotiation first.”

“Oh. _Talking._ ” Sherlock sighed dramatically and folded down onto his knees in the middle of the floor. It put his mouth at just the perfect level to reach John’s cock, if John would only step a bit closer. “Can’t you just shut me up already?” he demanded.

“No, I don’t think I want to.” John flashed his most placid smile and moved past Sherlock so he could sit on the edge of the bed and take off his shoes. Sherlock bowed his head, but didn’t turn around.

“You’ll get sick of my voice,” Sherlock said, resignation in his tone. “Everyone does. I can’t help but observe things, sometimes, and when I’m aroused I have a diminished verbal filter. I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

 _Diminished filter - does Tall Posh Git have some great state secrets I’m supposed to uncover, then?_ It didn’t sound likely, but then this assignment had been sketchy on the details right from the start. Maybe it was just a possibility of acquiring intel. John took a moment to look over the smooth planes of Sherlock’s back - acres of pale skin, unbroken with scars or blemishes. Not the body of a field agent, then. Scientist? Possibly, given the state of the sitting room, although that could just be a hobby. Or the odds and ends could belong to a flatmate - there _had_ been another staircase leading up to what was presumably another room in the attic and the bedroom itself was relatively uncluttered. Although from what John had seen of Sherlock so far, he didn’t seem the type to cohabit peacefully.

Either way, a gag was out of the question. “I prefer you free to give input,” John answered instead. “The first time with a new partner always has extra pitfalls, and I believe in clear communication.”

“I already said I consent to everything,” Sherlock snapped. “What more could you possibly need from me?”

“Patience.” John punctuated the word with a flat-handed slap on Sherlock’s bare shoulderblade. He didn’t hit hard, barely enough force to redden the pale skin, but the sharp crack of noise drew Sherlock’s spine straight like he’d been set on fire. “You can’t possibly consent to _everything_ \- you don’t know me. You don’t know what I might want to do.”

“I know you’re proud of your sexual prowess,” Sherlock answered immediately. “It’s part of your identity - this is how you define yourself. You’re career military, at least three tours, with a few months’ break in between . . . I’d put your age at what, thirty-four? Thirty-five? And you’re openly bisexual. Given what I already know about you, I’d estimate four to five ‘long-term’ partners, between sixty and one hundred casual partners, with whom you’ve had intercourse more than once but less than ten times, and another fifty or sixty one-night stands. Your sexual interest is fairly evenly split between genders but opportunity has provided you with more male partners than female. And at least one long-term partner whom you chiefly refer to publicly as intergender, although the odds are on you mentally defining that partner as a ‘girlfriend.’ You don’t always employ the trappings of BDSM, but you miss it when the sex is purely vanilla and when you do get the chance, you much prefer to be the dominant. You take great pride in the fact that you’ve never had a submissive use his or her safeword during one of your encounters, although you’re _pedantically_ attached to the concept. That’s enough to be going on, don’t you think?”

 _Bloody wanker._ John sighed, then stepped forward and wrenched Sherlock’s left arm up behind his back in a careful hold. “This,” he growled. “This is me overstepping your boundaries.” He forced Sherlock’s elbow higher, until Sherlock had to scramble to his feet to keep his arm from being twisted off. John kept up the pressure, though, stepping in to keep Sherlock off-balance and prevent him from straightening fully. “This is me pushing too hard. You think I’ve never had a sub safeword on me before?”

Sherlock was panting through the pain, now. He could have easily twirled his body away and freed his arm, but he kept his position until John’s careful grip finally got to be too much. “Vatican cameos,” he breathed.

John instantly let go and stepped back. Sherlock brought his arm around to his front and started massaging his elbow with his other hand.

“Using your safeword is nothing to be embarrassed about,” John said. “Now you’ve used it and I’ve had a sub use it and we can get that little pissing match behind us, okay? If you can’t follow my rules, we can’t do this.”

“Rules,” Sherlock echoed. He looked startled at the thought. _Like he’s never realized that the whole bloody consent structure was part of the rules in the first place._ “I . . . all right.”

“Tell me what you like,” John pressed. “I can’t read your bloody mind, and I want to make it good. For both of us.”

Sherlock remained standing, but he looked at the ground as he pondered. “Being tied up,” he admitted finally. “I particularly like when I can’t move. And - impact play is good, but I don’t like bloodplay as much.”

“Good, that’s good,” John said, nodding in encouragement. “What else? What about actual sex?”

“I like it,” Sherlock answered immediately. “As long as I’m allowed some refractory period, anyway.”

 _I should fucking_ hope _so._ “I _have _done this before,” John pointed out. “And one of my own non-negotiables is that we use condoms. I’m disease-free and would like to stay that way.”__

__“So am I, although I appreciate your caution.” Sherlock finally met John’s eyes. “I think that’s it - can we be done with the talking part now?”_ _

__John gave him a long, slow once-over, filthy enough to have Sherlock’s cock bobbing to half-mast by the time he was finished looking. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and full of lust._ _

__“Done with the talking,” John promised. “Now’s the part where I show you why Mike said this will be the best shag of your life. Close your eyes, make your way over to the bed, bend over the side, and stretch your hands over your head as far as you can.”_ _


	3. Chapter 3

John took his time looking over the selection in the chest. Sherlock obviously had both wide interests and a large budget - most of the restraints looked like real leather, good quality, and that kind of gear could usually set you back a few hundred pounds a pop. He eventually selected some plain hemp rope, dyed a vibrant royal purple. All the better to stand out against Tall Posh Git’s pale skin. Sherlock was making vague annoyed noises, little huffs and grumbles, but he stayed face-down on the bed with his arse in the air just as John had requested.

“For someone who was all too eager to get naked, you sure are complaining a lot,” John observed as he knelt to loop one end of the rope around the foot of the headboard. “Comfortable?”

“Mnot gdat aytng,” Sherlock mumbled into the sheet.

“Didn’t quite catch that.” John ran his palm over Sherlock’s bare calf to steady him, then looped the rope expertly around his left ankle several times to distribute the tension before tugging it tight in a French Bowline. He pulled out the slack, shifting Sherlock’s foot closer to the head of the bed, then ran the rope all the way to the support at the foot of the bed and repeated the process with Sherlock’s right foot. Easy enough to cut with the safety scissors which were pointedly taped to the inside lid of the toy trunk, but tight enough Sherlock had to keep his legs spread and his arse in the air if he wanted to keep his balance.

“I’m not good at waiting,” Sherlock said more distinctly, turning his head to the side.

“Why am I not surprised?” John gave the rope one last tug in the middle - pulling both Sherlock’s legs wider simultaneously and causing an immediate hitch in his breathing - and stood. “You want me to leave you a safety release when I tie your hands so you can get out if you want, or would that ruin the mood?”

“Mmmm.” Sherlock wriggled his bum in the air, which coincidentally shifted his noticeably erect cock against the sheets at the edge of the bed. “Not going to lecture me on how putting myself totally at your mercy would be unsafe?”

“Should I? _I_ know I’m not a psycho. You don’t.” John brought Sherlock’s wrists together, palms in, and lashed them all the way down to Sherlock’s elbows. He _definitely_ didn’t miss Sherlock’s dark groan at that. “Fine, but I’m trusting you to _tell me_ if this pulls wrong.” He looped the opposite end of the rope to the midpoint of the bed’s frame, then pulled until Sherlock was not quite flat on his stomach. The position was blatantly sexual, Sherlock’s arse in the air like an offering, the weight of his torso barely balanced on the narrow triangle of forearms and elbows. He was open and helpless and _fuck yes,_ this was going to be glorious. John knelt back down at the foot of the bed and pulled a small selection of toys out of the chest. “Comfortable?”

Sherlock moaned again, long and dirty and low. A purely manipulative moan, clearly meant to hurry him up, so John ignored it. This Tall Posh Git could just wait his turn, thankyouverymuch-

“Oi!” John looked up just in time to see Sherlock thrust his hips again, rubbing himself off against the edge of the bed. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but _bloody hell, can’t the man wait for two bloody minutes?_

“You’re not touching me yet,” Sherlock grumbled, bending his knees further to get a better angle. “I’m just getting a head start.”

“No you’re bloody well not.” John brought his palm down on that delectable arse, just one stinging slap, but it was enough to shock Sherlock into falling suddenly still. “And just for that, I’m making you wait a bit longer. Stay here.”

“Like I could do much else,” Sherlock grumbled, but John was already retreating out of the bedroom and backtracking to the cluttered kitchen. Surely there was something in the freezer-

 _What. The. Fuck._ Not a single item of food in the freezer. There was, however, a clear plastic tub full of what appeared to be human feet. And next to that, a whole frozen raccoon. And next to that, two bags of what appeared to be blood bank blood, computer-generated labels and everything. Expired, John hoped, and realized he didn’t even want to _think_ about why someone like Sherlock would have human body parts in his freezer. Was he a serial killer? It didn’t seem to fit anything else John had seen about him, and surely the mission brief would have mentioned if he’d shown a previous inclination to, say, murder and freeze his casual-take-home-for-sex-and-bondage partners. Not that John couldn’t hold his own, if he had to, but if he’d been the submissive he’d have been getting the fuck out of that flat before Sherlock could lay a hand on him.

 _Right._ John grabbed the first ice pack he saw which wasn’t touching any biological contaminants and slammed the freezer door shut. Sherlock didn’t say anything when John came back into the bedroom, but the look on his face shouted very clearly that he’d been listening to the sounds of what John was doing in the kitchen and was expecting John to throw a fit.

Which meant, of course, that John had to be suavely casual about the whole thing. He couldn’t mention the blood or the raccoon or the feet. He couldn’t yell and call Sherlock a freak and slam the door on his way out. He could, however, smile blandly at Sherlock and start unbuttoning his own dress shirt, so that’s what he did.

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed several times before he finally managed to say something. “They’re for an experiment,” he said finally.

“Okay.” John managed to unbutton his cuffs on the first try and shrugged the shirt off.

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world. Science is an integral part of my job.”

“I see.” John shucked his shoes and socks.

“I’m brilliant at it, actually. I solve crimes when no one else can.”

“What you are is naked.” John stepped out of his pants and smacked Sherlock’s other arse cheek, the one not yet pinkened from his first slap. “If you’re really so brilliant, you’ll have realized that I don’t give a damn what you do in your day job. Right now I’m mostly concerned with how well you respond to a flogger.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew dark, and he swallowed hard. “You can find out if you like,” he said in a hushed voice, and thrust his hips again. His arse bobbed temptingly and his cock slid against the sheets again. His whole body stiffened at the sensation-

“Yeah, none of that.” John lifted the sheet right next to Sherlock’s hips and slid the ice pack underneath, so it lay directly under his groin. The insulation of the single sheet would keep him from actually injuring himself if he accidentally ended up lying on it, but any more humping the mattress would only result in an unpleasantly frozen dick. Sherlock arched back as far as he could, pulling away from the already-cooler sheets, and literally growled.

“How the hell am I supposed to come with this in the way?”

“I should think the answer to that would be obvious - you’re not.” John smiled blandly and picked up the smallest of the half-dozen floggers he’d found in the chest. Nice quality leather, good rounded tips, the perfect weight in his hand, just the right length to play without having to worry too much about overdoing it. He brought it up to dangle over Sherlock’s arse, the soft strands trailing gently over the small of Sherlock’s back and the crease between his cheeks. “You’re going to want to twitch away from me,” he continued, “but I highly recommend resisting the impulse. Because if you freeze your prick off, you’ll lose your erection and this will hurt a _lot_ more.” He hesitated one more moment, to let Sherlock object if he wanted to, then brought the flogger down in a soft _swat._

“Hnf.” Sherlock grunted and sucked in a sharp breath, but he kept his hips perfectly steady. John brought the flogger down again, where the curve of Sherlock’s arse met his thigh, and this time Sherlock gave a minute twitch.

“You like this, don’t you?” John teased as he worked. _Flick flick flick_ \- three rapid hits all in a line up the back of Sherlock’s other thigh. Sherlock closed his eyes and dropped his head down to rest on his bound forearms. “Bet you’ve been dreaming of this for ages,” John added. _Flick flick flick flick._ “How’s that, you little pain slut?”

“God, yes,” Sherlock murmured. “Harder.”

John worked him only slightly harder, covering his arse and thighs and lower back with a fine cross-hatch of red lines. The flogger was a light one, not meant to break the skin, and the individual strips of leather were wide enough to thud instead of slice when they made impact. Still, Sherlock was twitching and groaning when John finally pulled back to give his arm a rest. He flattened both palms over Sherlock’s arse cheeks, rubbing gently and just letting his hands absorb some of the heat radiating off the pinkened skin. Sherlock moaned and pushed his arse up further, practically an entreaty.

“Ooh, that’s nice,” John said quietly as he massaged the bruised skin. “You’re so open for me, aren’t you? Your arse feel empty right now?”

“Mmgph.” Sherlock pressed his forehead into the mattress and widened his stance. John immediately caught the slackened rope with his heel and tugged it outwards, tightening it and trapping Sherlock’s feet in their new position for as long as John felt like keeping his weight on that leg. Sherlock’s breath caught, but he didn’t complain. “Want you in me,” he mumbled into the sheets.

“Oi, I didn’t promise _that._ ” John didn’t bother to hide his _I’m just getting started_ expression - Sherlock was in no position to see it, anyway. He did allow one hand to drift inwards, until his forefinger was trailing up and down the crack of Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock was all but shivering underneath him. It took a bit of maneuvering to reach the chest without moving either his finger or his foot, but John managed to reach both the lube and the slender string of anal beads.

Sherlock practically collapsed when John’s slick fingertip breached him. Only the cold pack hidden under the sheet kept his legs from giving out completely. John stepped in closer, pressing his own erection into the back of Sherlock’s quivering thigh, and spread the lube around with short, expert strokes which left Sherlock pressing up into his touch. The dark purple ropes stood out against the skin of his forearms like some sort of royal mantle, and only the lines from the flogger marked his body as anything less than perfect.

“Please,” Sherlock groaned. “John, _more_.”

“Yeah, all right.” John slicked some lube onto the beads and slid the first one easily into Sherlock’s fluttering hole. The second one followed nearly as quickly, barely any resistance at all until it, too, was nestled snugly inside him and Sherlock was whimpering wordlessly. “How’s that feel?” he asked.

_“More.”_

The third bead took a bit more finesse, and the fourth nearly a full minute of careful maneuvering. By the time John got the fifth and final bead seated nicely inside that gorgeous arse, Sherlock was panting and squirming and it took a firm swat to his reddened skin to get him to settle.

“Ah!” Sherlock jumped as the slap shifted the beads inside him. His cock jumped noticeably too - it was already almost as purple as the rope, fully thick and desperate for even the slightest touch. John couldn’t resist reaching down and palming the twitching skin, so sensitive, so delicate . . . _beautiful._ A fat drop of precome oozed out of the slit. John smeared it down the underside of Sherlock’s cock, just one fingertip making contact, but Sherlock bucked and shivered anyway.

“Still feel empty?” John encircled his fingers around Sherlock’s girth and squeezed the base, not too tightly, and let fly another stinging _slap_ on that formerly pale arse. Sherlock bit out something which could have been a curse, and another dribble of precome escaped. “I think I like you like this, you know - all but incoherent. How long do you think I can keep you like this, do you think?”

Sherlock groaned something completely unintelligible.

“I bet we could drag this out a long, long time.” John transferred the drop of precome to his fingertip and wiped it away on the sheet. “I could spank all the come out of you - one droplet after another. Squeeze it all out like toothpaste from a tube.” He ran his free hand over Sherlock’s thighs, arse, back - he kept his touch as gentle as possible, but the skin was so sensitive now that Sherlock couldn’t stop squirming. And of course each movement just made the beads shift inside him. “This is what you were looking for, isn’t it? Someone to take you apart?”

Sherlock’s dark curls bobbed as he nodded frantically. “I want to come, John, _please._ ”

“You just think you do.” John kept up his gentle assault, one hand circling Sherlock’s cock and one trailing gently over his body, until the inevitable happened. It was like watching an impending accident in slow motion - Sherlock’s legs wavered, his thighs starting to give out under the unnatural strain the wide-spread position held him in, and his body started to lower. He didn’t seem to realize it was happening, either, until one particularly violent shudder brought the entire underside of his cock in contact with the ice pack.

“Argh!” Sherlock _yelped_ and nearly jackknifed, practically yanking his shoulders out of their sockets in an effort to pull his hips farther from the shocking cold.

“Ooh, _there_ we go.” John ran his hand down to Sherlock’s bollocks and squeezed, none-too-gently. “Ready for a change in position, then? Because I think I fancy helping myself to a piece of this magnificent arse. Unless you object.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes wide several times, fighting to keep his breath. “No objection,” he said in between desperate pants. _“Fuck,_ John. Please. Just - fuck me. _Now.”_


	4. Chapter 4

He didn’t, of course. Besides the obvious (anal beads already in the way), Sherlock’s thighs were bound to be screaming from the awkwardly wide spread of his legs and his shoulder muscles would be going past “pleasingly sore” and into “feels like my arms are being wrenched off” pretty damn quick if John wasn’t careful. He pumped Sherlock’s cock a few times to warm it up (the underside was literally cool to the touch, and wasn’t _that_ an odd sensation?) and then moved the cold pack off to the side entirely. Sherlock groaned and thrust wantonly into his hand once or twice, then caught himself and stilled.

“Good, that’s it,” John murmured. “Going to move you to your back, now - tell me if you need a minute.”

 _“Now,”_ Sherlock groaned. “God, that was cold.”

“But good?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and shot John a baleful glare. “Ask me again after you’ve fucked me to pieces.”

“Right, right.” John grinned and knelt to untie Sherlock’s ankles. The position put his face right over the backs of Sherlock’s legs, and he couldn’t resist delivering a long lick from calf to thigh on each side. Sherlock yelped as John’s tongue passed over the thin skin on the backs of his knees, and he went limp onto the mattress. John pretended he didn’t notice.

It only took a few minutes to make everything match what was already laid out perfectly in his mind - Sherlock on his back on the bed, beads still inside him, shifting his hips slightly every time John moved his limbs. John untied his forearms and then cuffed his wrists to opposite corners of the headboard - not as wide a stretch as Sherlock’s legs had been, not too much more strain on his shoulders, but tight enough that Sherlock couldn’t move much more than his elbows. His chest was strikingly pale, the few dark curls looking strangely out of place, but his erection was already recovered and obviously interested in whatever was planned next. John walked back around the edge of the bed to dig through the toy chest again.

Sherlock licked his lips when he saw the nipple clamps, and his gaze flew up to lock on John’s.

“To help you keep from squirming away from me,” John said with a placid smile. “I get the impression you’d like to be able to just let go for a little while, hmmm? Not worry about obeying because you literally _can’t_ get it wrong?” He knelt between Sherlock’s parted legs and ran a gentle hand up from Sherlock’s hip all the way to his sternum, then back down to massage both pectoral muscles in turn. “You’re doing so well with those beads inside you, you know - I love thinking about how they must be shifting and pressing into you every time I move your body. They’re keeping you nice and open for me - ready for you to take my cock. Do you want my cock inside you, Sherlock? Here, get a good look.” He shifted up to a kneeling position, teasing himself with leisurely strokes with his free hand. “I’d offer to let you touch, but your hands aren’t exactly free at the moment.”

Sherlock groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow, but he kept his eyes on John’s slowly-moving hand.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” John continued, as if they were just casually discussing things. “I’m going to finish arranging you the way I want you, and then I’m going to fuck you until you’re completely out of your damn mind. We’re both going to be wearing condoms, me for the obvious reason and you because I don’t want you to come too quickly. In fact, I don’t want you to come at all. If you’re a good boy and take my cock like the dirty slut I can tell you love to be, I’m going to blow all your previous experiences out of the water and when I’m done, you’re going to come like you’ve never come before.” He slid his hand down to close roughly over Sherlock’s cock. “If you can’t . . . well, then at least you’ll have gotten an orgasm out of it. Think you can do that?”

It took three tries for Sherlock to actually make noise come out of his throat. “Yes,” he croaked. “Yes please, John, fuck me out of my mind and make me your dirty slut. I’m going to- _oh!”_

John released Sherlock’s nipple and cock at the same time, where he had been squeezing both in a suddenly-punishing grip. “You don’t have to do anything,” he reminded him. “Just hold on. Now - clamps. Do you have a preference as to how tight you like them, or should I just choose for you?”

_“Guh.”_

“My choice it is, then.” They really were very nice - good solid bullnose clamps connected by what looked like an actual gold chain. Probably ridiculously expensive - practically jewelry, honestly, if you ignored what they were for. John tested them a few times on his own fingertip, then set the screw to about half-tension and closed the first one over Sherlock’s left nipple. Sherlock sucked in a breath, but otherwise stayed perfectly still. He blinked and swallowed after the right clamp went on.

“Gorgeous.” John lifted the chain with one fingertip and wriggled it - not enough to actually pull on the clamps, but it made Sherlock tense up and whimper anyway. _God,_ that whimper - it was possibly the most erotic moment of the night so far, and John had barely even touched his own cock. The realization had him leaning over the edge of the bed and flailing for his trousers on the floor. “Condoms. I know I - _right._ ” He found the correct pocket and pulled out two. “There’s actually quite a bit of variation in these, did you know? I always make it a point to carry both my favorite brand - for me - and something a little . . . thicker. Just for times like this.”

“Twelve,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Pardon?” John got the first packet open without making a fool of himself and extracted the contents.

“Twelve major variations. In thickness and design. Did a ‘speriment once.”

“Is that so?” John pinched the tip and unrolled the heavier condom onto Sherlock’s cock. Purposely businesslike, no extra touching, but Sherlock gasped anyway. “I did assume you were a scientific type of bloke, given the state of your kitchen. And your freezer.”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock reiterated, a bit breathlessly.

“Ah, right.” John got the second condom on himself with even less fanfare, then added a palmful of lube for good measure. “Come to think of it, you said you’d have a ‘diminished verbal filter’ when you were turned on. But you’ve barely said anything since I tied you up. This not do it for you, then?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes - an almost comic motion, considering their relative positions - but he did perk up a bit. “If you can’t tell that, you’re not as experienced as I thought you’d be.”

“Oh - you mean I should know from this?” John pressed the heel of his hand down into the base of Sherlock’s cock, effectively silencing him. Sherlock’s eyelids slammed shut and he threw his head back. “Because I think I’d rather like to hear what’s going through your head,” John continued. “In fact, I want you to narrate for me. What my cock feels like sliding into you. How badly you want to come, and can’t. A little begging would be okay, too - up to you. But first, let’s get you ready for me the rest of the way.”

Sherlock drew his knees up expectantly, his heels pressing against his thighs, the skin still pinkened from John’s attention before.

“No, not that,” John countered. “Well, that’s a start, but I was thinking a little more . . . acrobatic. Is that a cane in the corner?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “John, I don’t think-”

“Not impact play,” John immediately clarified. “Just - here.” He slid off the bed and went to grab the white cane (yes, literally a white cane, red tip and everything, and _what the fuck_ did Sherlock get up to in his spare time?), then returned and slid it under Sherlock’s knees. He leaned on the center section, curling Sherlock into a fetal position and raising his arse from the mattress.

 _“Oh,”_ Sherlock breathed.

“Quite.” John repurposed the purple rope from before, tying both ends of the cane to the headboard with just the right amount of lead so Sherlock’s knees were flush with John’s shoulders and his bare calves and feet stuck up into the air. He couldn’t resist a little push and pull on the exposed end of the anal beads, drawing another long groan out of Sherlock. The middle part of the cane was in the way of John leaning over to kiss Sherlock’s face or torso, but Sherlock didn’t seem like the type of bloke to need deep, passionate kissing during sex anyway. The nipple clamps, however . . . John took one loose end of the rope and cinched it between the gold chain and the cane. “How’s that?” he asked.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sucked in several deep breaths. “It’s good,” he said, his voice already giving away the telltale signs of subspace. “Arms are comfortable. I like not being able to move them. My arse still feels warm and throbby from before but it’s a good hurt.”

“So if I do this?” John reached down and pinched a generous amount of Sherlock’s lean bum. With the expected results - Sherlock jerked at the sudden pain, recoiled as the clamps bit into his nipples, and finally relaxed with a very deliberate, albeit shaky, exhale. He didn’t protest, though, which John counted as a very good sign.

“Hurts like hell, but then you already know that,” Sherlock admitted. “I underestimated you.”

“I find that happens a lot. It’s the ‘short’ that does it, I think. I look harmless.” John soothed the area he’d just pinched, then very carefully started to work the beads out of Sherlock’s shuddering arse. Every tiny twist and movement set Sherlock to groaning at first, but after several minutes of careful work, John was able to get the largest bead out from Sherlock’s tight hole and after that the rest were much easier. John tossed the toy to the floor on the opposite side of the bed and immediately lined himself up. He was about to burst himself, untouched or no, if he didn’t get inside Sherlock _right that fucking instant._

“Ohhh,” Sherlock sighed again as John slid home. He was still stretched from the beads, slick and greedy and wanting, and his arse felt amazing. John slid out and thrust in again, harder.

“Talk, Sherlock.”

 _“Christ!_ I - you’re so huge inside me, it feels like your cock is touching all the way to my diaphragm. _Fuck me, John. Please.”_

And this time, John did. He set a fast, punishing rhythm, deliberately slapping his hips into Sherlock’s sensitized thighs and arse as he pistoned in and out. Sherlock’s position left his cock jamming directly into his navel - probably would have filled that taut little hollow with precome if John hadn’t encased him in a condom. As it was, John made a point of giving _juuuust_ the right amount of stimulation - every time Sherlock’s stream-of-consciousness babble (and it really was babbling, which was just as hot as the visual) started to falter, John responded with a half-dozen shorter thrusts. Not deep enough to reach Sherlock’s prostate, not directly, but definitely still enough to make himself feel good. _Fuck,_ he was so close - Sherlock was tossing his head from side to side and just flat-out moaning, now, low, dirty moans which probably could have made John come all on their own. As it was, he only lasted another thirty seconds or so before the white-hot tension overtook him and he spent himself in Sherlock’s hot, slick arse.


	5. Chapter 5

“Fuck, that was amazing.” John couldn’t feel most of the muscles below his waist, but it was absolutely bloody worth it. Even in his post-orgasmic slump, he could still appreciate what an artistic masterpiece Sherlock made - bound on the bed, his pinkened arse in the air with its gapingly empty hole (now that John was no longer in it) and with his knees held somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulders. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open, panting, although whether it was with lust or exertion, John was too knackered to tell. “You’ve done beautifully,” he said instead.

Sherlock just whimpered and shuffled his shoulders a bit.

“Let’s let you relax for a minute.” John took care of his condom and then untied the ropes, carefully decoupling the nipple chain before popping the knots from the ends of the cane and lowering Sherlock’s legs down flat to the mattress. Sherlock mumbled something as the gold chain fell back against his sternum, but he seemed too far gone to actually complain. John nudged Sherlock’s legs closer together and ran his hands gently over the sensitive skin of his thighs. “Just relax,” he repeated. “I’ve got you.”

“Please,” Sherlock whispered.

“In a minute. Get the tension out. Back away from the peak for a minute and then I promise you, I’ll help you fly.”

Sherlock’s nipples had to be throbbing by this point, but John didn’t touch the clamps. He did grab the second pillow and jam it under Sherlock’s hips so that long, lean body could form a slight arch over the mattress. Sherlock moaned.

“Easy,” John murmured. He ran his hand over Sherlock’s stomach, his hips, his thighs. “You want your legs free, or you want them cuffed down?”

“Want to not move,” Sherlock mumbled. “Want to come and then just die in peace.”

 _God, he is so out of it._ Even having just drained himself dry, John still felt a stab of lust at the thought. “I’ll only promise the first half,” he said with a smile. He repurposed the ropes again, quickly wrapping Sherlock’s ankles and setting his legs at diagonals so he was tied spread-eagled on the bed with the pillow still holding his hips forward. Sherlock’s cock had softened slightly, still desperately hard but no longer looking like he was going to burst the condom. John dipped to press a small kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s knee, then started licking and kissing his way up.

“Ungh.” Sherlock’s sigh-groan was basically sex distilled to a single soundbite. John made his way up to Sherlock’s bollocks, lightly mouthing and tonguing each in turn, and the sighs turned downright pornographic. _Yeah, definitely out of it. So much for blathering to the point I’d want to shut him up._ Sherlock squirmed, obviously not sure whether he wanted to press his hips down into the pillow or buck up against John’s mouth. And _fuck_ \- John could practically _see_ Sherlock’s cock engorging again right before his eyes. They’d both be wanking about this for ages, most likely.

But Sherlock had been waiting long enough - anything more was going to be bordering on cruel. And John had a reputation to maintain. Not a reputation that mattered to anyone except himself, but still - Mike had vouched for him, albeit with second-hand knowledge, so maybe he should do this for Mike’s reputation? Or - _hell,_ mostly John just wanted to get his mouth on that luscious cock he’d been pointedly ignoring all evening. He flung himself onto Sherlock’s legs - pinning him down even further - and swallowed him down as far as he could.

 _“Oh!”_ Sherlock went completely rigid, his hips freezing, all the better for John to center himself over those long thighs and to settle his palms over Sherlock’s warm skin and to _focus._ Sherlock was actually literally babbling, now - John tried to keep an ear open for it, just in case the Tall Posh Git (no, not that, not anymore, not now that John knew both his name and his sexual tastes) actually did have some state secrets, but half the babbling appeared to be in languages John didn’t understand and most of what he did comprehend seemed to center around the concepts of _more, please,_ and a variety of expletives.

Whatever else might have been said about John’s various skills, he knew he was _good_ at this. He loved giving head, he loved the flavor (less so with the condom, but the hint was still there), he loved the way his partners would groan and pant and beg. And Sherlock’s reactions were blowing everything else out of the water. John narrowed his cheeks and dragged his tongue gently over Sherlock’s slit through the thin latex, then used his lips to provide a bit of pressure as he teased the underside of the head. Having Sherlock’s hands tied was nice - it meant no yanking his hair as he moved his head around - but it also meant he didn’t get that extra feedback from fingertips spasming against his skull. Not that it really mattered in this case, since Sherlock was being so responsive in other ways, but maybe if they ever got to do this again John would blow him up against a wall, just the two of them, no toys. Nothing but his tongue to get Sherlock to this post-verbal state. Although really, there was _one_ toy he still had left to play with . . .

John held his body perfectly still, not wanting to give anything away by a big shift in his weight, but he let go of Sherlock and reached up over his head. Had to do this by feel, without touching, without letting Sherlock figure it out. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, he wouldn’t know until-

John’s fingers found the nipple clamps. He sucked Sherlock’s cock as far down as he could go and simultaneously popped both clamps off at once. A moment for Sherlock to realize, a moment for the pain to hit-

Sherlock yelled and nearly impaled John’s throat as he came. His entire body was shaking with it. John kept his head still, the condom preventing him from having to awkwardly swallow, but he slid the heels of his palms over Sherlock’s tender, puffy nipples and pressed. It wouldn’t stop the pain entirely, but it would muffle it a bit. When the tension in Sherlock’s body finally eased and he melted back into the mattress, John pulled off and sat up to take stock.

Sherlock looked . . . honestly, _“well-fucked”_ was the first thing to come to mind. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead, his eyes were closed and his mouth loosely open, and his nipples were indeed a lovely crimson with freshly-reacquired blood. He was the very picture of debauchery.

“John,” he slurred, and opened his eyes. A strikingly vivid green, and hadn’t they been more hazel earlier? “I feel like I have no bones.”

“After an orgasm like that, I’m not surprised.” John set to untying him, releasing one limb at a time and rubbing the rope marks with his thumbs to increase circulation. He left the purple ropes lying where they were, vivid against the white sheets, a stark reminder of how they’d looked against Sherlock’s skin. “Feel free to take a minute - I’ll go find a flannel and clean us both up.”

“Skip it - come back here.” Sherlock managed to get his condom off and tossed it in the bin next to the bed. “Want to hold you.”

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a cuddler,” John said, but he did climb back on the bed and pull the neglected covers up over the both of them. Sherlock immediately rolled onto his side and enveloped him in an octopus-like embrace.

“Never have been before,” Sherlock mumbled. “I think I will be every time with you, though.”

 _Every time?_ John found he didn’t dislike the idea - hell, hadn’t he just been fantasizing about blowing Sherlock up against a wall? - but it wasn’t necessarily going to be up to him. “You want to see me again, then?”

Sherlock pulled away just far enough that John could see his _good grief_ expression. “Assuming you don’t have to dash off for some other assignment, yes. Tell Mycroft I’ll take his bloody job as long as he lets you stay.”

 _Fuck. Fuckityfuckfuckfuck._ John kept his fingers mechanically tracing up and down Sherlock’s back, but his mind was racing. “Who’s Mycroft?” he finally managed to say.

“Mycroft? Holmes?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “‘Big Brother,’ in every relevant sense? Come on, John, didn’t they give you any background on me at all?”

John considered denying everything, pretending he had just happened to meet Sherlock at the wedding and happened to fancy a shag, but obviously there was more to it than that. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said carefully.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “Please,” he groaned. “You’re MI6; I’m not blind. I recognize an undercover assignment when I see one - I’ve done plenty of them myself, thank you. Do you seriously mean to tell me you slept with me without having a single clue what you were supposed to accomplish?”

Right, so denying everything was out of the question. And there _was_ a Holmes somewhere in the chain of command - John wasn’t exactly sure where, but he got the impression that the man was near the top. And this assignment had been at his express request - _shit._

“You’re one of Sholto’s men, I’d wager,” Sherlock continued. “You’ve seen plenty of deaths, killed more than a few men yourself. You didn’t run screaming when you saw the feet in the freezer. And my brother has been after me for weeks to take on a particular pet project of his - a request I’ve been ignoring. Your easygoing facade and your obvious sexual expertise speak to rather extensive experience in that arena - some on your own, I’d assume, but at least some of it in service to your country. You were a little _too_ unbothered, for someone who presumably isn’t used to encounters quite like this. Assignment, then. And given the timing, likely my brother’s doing.”

 _Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. Brother?_ John finally put things together. “Your brother is named Mycroft Holmes?”

“Not that I usually care to acknowledge the relationship, but yes.”

 _Mycroft and Sherlock - they must have had sadistic parents._ “And you think I’m . . . what, a bribe?” John wriggled away from Sherlock’s embrace. “I’m not a prostitute, Sherlock.”

“No, but you’re exactly what I would have been looking for, if I had known I were looking.” Sherlock met his eyes unblinkingly. “I told Mycroft he didn’t have anything I could possibly want enough to make me willing to work for him again. Apparently I was wrong. And he saw fit to nudge you my way.”

It made sense. That’s what was so damning - the vague assignment, the slim folder on Sherlock with few details and no name, the lack of direction until the very last minute. Everything reeked of a higher-up pulling some strings. John knew he should probably be angry - but then again, if he were the type to get mad about every secret his employers kept from him, he’d have been a very poor fit for his job. “I don’t know what to say.”

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh. “Fine - one second.” he leaned over the side off the bed and fished in the pocket of his trousers, coming back up with a mobile. A few seconds later he was dialing a contact labeled in his address book as “Fuck off Mycroft” and he had the phone on speaker.

“Sherlock.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

“I’m lying naked in bed with your man John after what was probably the best shag of my life,” Sherlock announced. “He wants you to reassure him that it’s okay to keep tying me up and fucking me on a regular basis.”

“Holy fuck, Sherlock,” John gasped. “Seriously, what the hell?”

“I do apologize for my brother,” the smooth voice on the phone said. “He often lacks a verbal filter. Doctor Watson, if you would care to take me off speaker, I would be pleased to reassure you in private. Sherlock, for God’s sake, _go put some pants on.”_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but slid off the bed and sauntered over to the wardrobe to acquire some pants and a navy dressing gown. Nothing else was needed, apparently. John took the phone back into the cluttered sitting room and eventually figured out how to turn the speakerphone function off.

“It would seem my brother is pleased with your skill set,” Mycroft said mildly.

“Yeah, it seems that way.” John took a deep breath. “No offense, sir, but I’d really like some sort of _something_ before I go and announce anything I’m supposed to be keeping secret. There’s kind of no point to me insisting I’m not in Her Majesty’s service now, I acknowledge, but I barely know you and I really don’t know what the hell - sorry, what on earth - is going on.”

“Would a call from Commander Sholto suffice?”

“I - yeah.” John slumped into the one clear chair in the entire flat. “Although the fact that you know that name helps a lot.”

“He can vouch for me, and I’ll vouch for my brother.” Mycroft hummed politely into the phone. “I really need to go, but I will say - there’s a small matter of some foreign intelligence not being what it should. Something my brother would be in an excellent position to help me clear up. I do hope you’re willing to work with him, should he accept the job. Your employment isn’t conditional upon your participation, of course - you’re free to walk away now and we’ll consider your assignment completed to satisfaction - but I suspect you, too, would find it a diverting little matter. And it’s nothing that would put too much strain on your shoulder or your leg. You’ve been bored, Doctor Watson, and my brother is an excellent antidote to boredom.”

 _Fuck._ John nodded, then realized Mycroft wouldn’t hear that over the phone. “Yeah, fine. Have Sholto call me and I’ll talk to Sherlock.”

***

Ten minutes of phone tag later, John came back into the bedroom to find Sherlock busily putting away the last of the recently-cleaned toys in the chest. In contrast to the mess in the rest of the flat, Sherlock’s bedroom was astoundingly tidy. Clearly the sex toys were a prized possession.

“Resolved to your satisfaction, then?”

John nodded. “Sorry.”

“You were being prudent.” Sherlock hung up his dressing gown again - why bother with it if he was only going to wear it for a few minutes? - and slid under the covers in just his pants. “Coming?”

John looked at Sherlock, looked down at his own naked body (and hadn’t _that_ been strange, talking to his boss without a stitch of clothing on), and hesitated. Then flipped off the light and climbed in bed beside him.


End file.
